Tainted
by miss-olivia-winchester
Summary: "This was something John could not obscure or hide. His little Sammy...tainted. The Iowa State Adoption Agency had been very understanding, and that rainy June night, John drove away with one less son." Pre-series AU What if John knew something was wrong with Sam and gave him up for adoption? Ends with normal canon but starts out very different...
1. Prologue

John Winchester was never good at lying. When talking to others, especially those who knew him, he seemed instantly transparent. No one believed him. That is, until his wife was killed. Not only could he now lie with ease, he was even better at lying to himself. But this...this was something John could not obscure or hide—this was a truth he would have to face. Little Sammy...tainted. That night in his nursery, whatever had burned Mary had...done something to his youngest son. Was he even human anymore? God, he couldn't stop staring. It was seven forty five at night, and John was finally having a meal with his boys. Sammy was one year old now; they'd celebrated (if you could call it that) at Daniel Elkins' place. Dean was five and a curious, intelligent little boy, with a deep love and protection for his little brother. John's black-brown eyes couldn't leave Sam, staring intensely with a troubled expression and a million thoughts racing through his head. The motel room's air held the kind of thick, stifling heat that worked its way into your mind and made you feel heavy; Dean had sweat beaded on his forehead as he chewed innocently on his cheeseburger. He had no idea. Neither did Sam, the truly beautiful child gnawing on a stray sippy cup and giggling as his older brother made faces at him. John was...in a word, disturbed. His baby Sammy had something very wrong with him, plain and simple.

"What's the matter, Daddy?" Dean asked sweetly, looking at his father with his brilliant green eyes and setting his burger down.

Unable to pull a smile or tear his eyes off his youngest, John simply said, "Nothing. Everything's fine." Another lie.

That night was even worse. John hardly got adequate sleep normally, but now all he could do was think about things he wished he could avoid but knew he couldn't. And when sleep finally did come...a dark figure stood alone before John in his dream, and though his instincts were screaming at him to run, he stood still and watched on as the figure turned to him. The figure's eyes flashed like lightning, a dangerous foreboding quality in the air and a crackling ferocity John felt emanating from whoever was in his dream. And though he had no view of the figure, some deep, horrifying intuition told him who it was.

"Sam," John whispered, realization dawning. Taking a step forward, he began to see the figure—Sam—more clearly. He could only seem to focus on his devilish grin, even as the figure began to speak.

"You are one sad, sick son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Sam—," John began, but the figure cut him off with a bitter, humorless laugh.

"It's all just a game to you, isn't it? Finding Mom's killer, 'making him pay' like you're some kind of hero. You're not. You're just a man failing his sons like you fail at everything."

John felt a lump in his throat form, heart racing as he tried to choke out a response. "I never claimed to be a hero," he got out eventually, and was again met with a sharp bark of a laugh.

"Well, actions speak louder than words, don't they? I know that better than anyone. You know, I always told myself, I'm the good guy. I save people. But I knew I was lying to myself. I like killing, Dad. I like the sound of screams, I can't help it."

John took a step back. He couldn't be hearing what he was. "No," he whispered, "No, I won't believe it."

"Hey, you said there was something wrong with me. I guess you were a little more spot-on than you thought." And as the figure stepped forward, John finally noticed the blood dripping from his hands—dark, thick...and not his own.

"You're a monster," John murmured weakly.

"I'm your son," Sam corrected, wild obsession lighting his eyes with a fire and causing John's stomach to plummet.

He woke up then, moaning and wrapped tightly in sweat-soaked sheets—he didn't solidly for another few days. And one day, quick to tears and emotionally unstable, not to mention sleep-deprived, John Winchester announced to his sons that they were going somewhere. Dean carefully picked his words, eventually asking where they were going. Even at this age he knew when his father was in an easily shifting mood, and now was not a good time to be brash.

John didn't even look at the five year-old as he replied tiredly, shoving his belongings into a single duffel bag. "Away," he said vaguely, and told his son, "Get your brother in the car." Dean had never seen his father so close to heartbreak, but listened to him anyway. It was close to four in the afternoon when, still on the road, John Winchester cried. They were the same tears he'd shed when he'd had to leave his friends and family for Vietnam, and when he'd had to leave Laurence and that burnt husk of a house. Only now, he was the one leaving someone behind. The Winchesters drove all afternoon until, at 6:42 in the evening, John dropped Dean off at a motel, told him to lock the door, and took little Sammy with him. He came back at 3 am without him.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked constantly when he woke up.

"Sammy's with another family by now, probably," John answered every time, pushing down every painful thought that came. The Iowa State Adoption Agency had been very understanding, and that rainy June night, John drove away with one less son.


	2. The Beginning of the End

Dean wanted Sammy back, plain and simple. He was always pressing his father—where was his baby brother? Could they go see him? Why was he gone now? Would he ever see him again? As the years plodded on, the questions grew few and far between, and Dean became what many described as a 'hell of a hunter'. It became consistent, though, for him to become quiet and nostalgic around the month of June—even asking John the questions he'd asked when he was younger. Fourteen years passed, and hope for a glimpse of his younger brother dwindled. Hunt after hunt, Sam Winchester became a distant memory, something rarely spoken of, a photo without a backstory. That is, until the autumn of 1998, in the small town of Rosemary Heights, Iowa.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

 **1998**

"Sam!" Jimmy Cho, Sam's best friend, called as he ran up to him. Grinning, he remarked, "Sheesh, those long legs sure would be handy in track."

Laughing breathily, Sam looked down at his shoes as the two walked through the halls of St. Joseph High School. "Maybe next year. I've already got orchestra, chess, and literary club."

Jimmy, long black hair swaying, sucked in a breath and commented, "Okay, you need to slow down. Next you'll be trying out for the school play." Glancing at Sam and noticing his sheepish expression, he groaned, "Oh my God you are."

Sam shrugged, explaining, "Hey, if I ever want to get into Stanford, I've got to widen my horizons, experience what I can."

Jimmy reminded, "Your parents are already going to donate a crap ton of money to the college of _your choice._ That's a pretty sure guarantee you'll get in."

Sam frowned. "Yeah, but...I want to work for it, you know? There's not many things I've had to work for that I should have, what with my parents and their insane income."

"What do they do, again?"

"You know—" Sam began, but was cut off by a familiar voice over the intercom.

"Sam Davenport, please come to the office." Young. Female. Definitely not the secretary, old Mrs. Lansbury. Jimmy flashed a grin at his friend.

"That sounded an awful lot like—"

"Michelle Benson, yeah," Sam finished for him, beginning to blush wildly. "We're in literary club together."

"Wonder what she wants," Jimmy added suggestively, causing Sam to roll his eyes. "Go get 'er, Romeo!" he called as his friend started away towards the office.

Entering the gray, musty office of St. Joseph High, Sam saw Michelle smiling gently by the secretary's desk, leaning casually against the wall.

Sam laughed sweetly, "How did you get to speak over the intercom?"

Michelle tucked her golden hair behind her ears, shrugging and explaining with a grin, "Mrs. Lansbury owed me one."

Biting his lip and standing awkwardly for a moment, Sam then inquired, "So why'd you call me down here? I finished the analysis of Metamorphosis, if that's what you—"

"No, that's not it," Michelle cut in, again tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear—almost a nervous gesture. "Um...God, this is rough to get out..." Sam raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious. "Sam, we've known each other for, like two years now, right?"

"Three, I think."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Silence took over for a while, papers and soft voices and ringing phones as background noise. Finally, Michelle blurted out, "So do you want to go out?"

Sam's heart skipped a beat, his palms sweaty and knees shaking. _Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God._ He decided not to jump to conclusions. "Go out...like..."

"Like on a date. With me. Yeah," Michelle sighed, clearly extremely nervous herself.

The attendance secretary was staring now, causing Sam to motion to Michelle that they step out of the office. "You're...," he began, then whispered almost incredulously, "You're serious?"

Michelle's face fell and she insisted, "Yes, Sam, I'm serious. Is that so hard to believe?"

He bit his lip and let out a chuckle, absentmindedly running a hand through his golden-brown hair. "It's just...dreams don't usually come true, do they?"

Michelle looked stunned, trying and failing to stutter out an intelligible response. Gulping quietly, she then shoved a piece of paper into his hands, blushing as she told him, "I wrote my phone number on it. Call me tonight, okay?", before walking away and leaving a slightly dazed Sam standing in an emptying hall.

Though he'd probably get his own car the second he got his license, Sam only had his permit now, and preferred walking home every day with Jimmy, anyway. Stomach in knots, he explained to his friend what had happened at the office on their trek home. And just as Jimmy began to complain prematurely about becoming the third wheel, Sam felt a sort of buzz at the back of his neck as a car began to roll by. Two men, what looked like a father and son, were driving by in a black, retro-looking car, blasting classic rock and seeming very much like they ruled the road. Brow furrowed in confusion, he set his hand on his friend's shoulder and motioned to the distancing vehicle.

"Have you ever seen them around?" Rosemary Heights was just that small—visitors were usually noticed.

Jimmy shrugged subtly, shaking his head before a grin pulled at his lips. "Nice wheels, though. A 67' or 68' Chevy Impala, it looks like."

It was just a couple of strangers blowing through town. So why did Sam have such an odd feeling about them?

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

"Are you sure we know what we're doing here?" Dean asked his father for the hundredth time as they pulled into the Watercress Motel's parking lot.

"Relax," John assured. "This job's cut out for us—three people dead, all of them hearts missing. We'll be in-and-out, I promise. Besides, when did you become so antsy to get out of town?"

Dean unbuckled but sat there for a moment, quietly responding, "I don't know. Something feels...off here, I guess. Maybe I'm just being paranoid."

The two settled into the motel room within a matter of minutes, and soon John told his son, "Okay, I'll check out around town, ask a few locals; you go to the coroner's, figure out some info. on the vics." It was a system they'd used countless times and it was nothing new for nineteen year old Dean, who'd known 'the life' since the age of five. Donning a corduroy jacket and thin glasses, Dean set out for the coroner's office at the police station, explaining that he was a college student doing what he vaguely explained as a 'project'.

"Hell of a project," the coroner muttered as he pulled the body of one Felicia Stewart out of its sterile silver-colored drawer. By some miracle (and a lot of well-placed compliments), Dean got full cooperation from the medical office and soon discovered what he knew to be a connection between the victims. Calling up his father, he explained to him that, since two were students at St. Joseph's High and one was a teacher there, the school was their next step. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he hung up and began to drive away, thinking reassuredly, _'I'm overreacting—this case is practically over already.'_

John met Dean at St. Joseph's High School, with nothing of his own but a congratulatory clap on Dean's back for a job well done. The school itself was fairly small—maybe only a couple hundred or so students in total, and the two decided it would be a breeze finding any files they might need. Waiting until it was dark, the father and son duo swiped an entry card off a paraprofessional and snuck into the building with a confidence that spoke of years of experience. Making it to the main office in the black-blue of the night, each took a differing side of the room and whipped out their flashlights, beginning to finger through the school's files. Ten minutes into it, Dean thought briefly that they didn't even know for certain what they were looking for...until, that is, he noticed the name 'Sam' on one of the files. Slowing his quick breathing, Dean closed his eyes for a moment. Did he really want to do this to himself? Was it really worth it? Opening his eyes to peer down at the picture of the nerdy-looking, mop-haired teenage boy grinning at the camera, he felt a pang in his chest as he tried to recall his little brother. _Oh God, yes, it was worth it._


	3. Well, Shit

**Reviews are very much appreciated! Please remember any comments, suggestions, questions, or words of any sort are greatly appreciated-I especially love answering inquiries, so ask and review and comment away.**

"And you're absolutely sure it's him?"

John and Dean Winchester were sitting in the parked Impala, morning mist curling around its tires and slightly fogging up the windows. Staring raptly out at the house across the street, Dean affirmed, "It has to be. It's Iowa, he's sixteen in a couple of months, and his file says he was adopted in 1984...it's gotta be him."

The two watched on discreetly through the house's large front window as the (very normal) mother and father rushed the teenager off to school, handing him his bagged lunch and kissing him goodbye, all in a flurry of activity. Soon Sam Davenport was out the door and walking to school, his smile sparking something deep inside John. Stunned yet ecstatic, he murmured quietly, "Sammy's fine now. He really is." Minutes stretched on and John looked over at Dean. "We're getting him back," he told him firmly. Nothing on heaven and earth could stand between John Winchester and his younger son—he would make sure of it.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

A whole day of flirting and breathy requests, and Michelle Benson had Sam's directions all turned around—he almost got lost twice on the way home from school. Humming some random lovey-dovey song and feeling so light it seemed he could blow away, Sam tip-toed along the sidewalk heading home—and out of the corner of his eye, saw a familiar car. It was the black retro, the one Jimmy had been geeking out about, and the very one Sam had felt so strangely about. Deep thought and nagging memories tugged at him softly until he thought he heard his name behind him.

"Sam?" The voice was almost a breath of relief, like the tone you have when you finally find someone you thought you'd lost in a crowd. The only problem was, Sam had never seen the guy. He had mischievous green eyes, a muscular build, a brown leather coat, short, dark blonde hair, and looked to be about 18 or 19.

Shaking his head slowly, Sam explained, "My name's Sam, but...I don't think I know you."

The other young man stopped short, the look on his face one of regret and pain. "No," he chuckled humorlessly to himself, rubbing the back of his neck, his other hand on his hip. "No, I guess you wouldn't." He paused for a moment, and Sam desperately wished to be somewhere else; in his room, practicing cello, or studying for his upcoming geometry test.

Swallowing quietly and glancing behind the stranger, he inquired, "Um, can I...can I get past you?"

But the young man did not move, only looking Sam pleadingly in the eyes, imploring, "C'mon, Sammy, hear me out."

Something caught in Sam's throat as he told the young man, indignant, "Please don't call me that. Now may I be on my way?"

The stranger chuckled again, clearly nervous as he began to pace and knit his fingers together with a wild energy. "Sam, there's...there's something you need to know."

"And what would that be?" the teenager asked, impatient.

"I'm your brother, for fuck's sake."

The stranger's eyes begged him to understand—Sam just shoved past him and sprinted toward his house, only a block away from where he was. What the hell; what kind of weirdo got their kicks telling people ridiculous things like that? Sam was no marathon runner, and felt his heart going nuts in his chest as he stepped into his home. Face flushed from the cardio and panting heavily, Sam called as he dropped his backpack near the door and walked down the hall, "Mom? Dad? There was this—"

An unfamiliar face in his living room cut him off immediately, almost turning to panic before he noticed his parents sitting on the pristine white couch opposite the man. Their expressions were hesitant, but ultimately serious, like when they'd had the sex talk with him last year.

"What's going on?" His words were slow, as if anything more out of the ordinary would set him off and he'd go running. The man visiting looked maybe 40, with deep black eyes and even darker hair, stubble on his chin and an army surplus jacket on.

His mom was the first to speak. "Sweetheart, why don't you sit down? We have a lot to talk about."

 _'You've got to be kidding,'_ Sam thought, toes buzzing with leftover adrenaline and eyeing any possible exits as he sat down in a drawn-out effort on the chair next to the man's. His stomach was in turmoil, recalling that he had seen this man driving in the old black car with the stranger who'd claimed to be his 'brother'. As if.

"Is something wrong?" he inquired, keeping his eyes off the visitor even though he could feel the man's gaze on him.

His father shifted awkwardly, explaining, "Depends on how you take the news." Sam's stomach dropped. What could be so serious and important, and yet need to have this stranger sitting in their living room?

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sam asked softly, "What news?" He closed his eyes then, as if to brace himself for whatever big reveal his parents intended to make. His throat was dry, his hair was sticking to his scalp, why was he here, who was this man...?

"You're adopted."

"Paul!" Mrs. Davenport hissed.

Sam was frozen. What the hell did they expect him to do? It had to be a joke. A minute passed. Two. His mind was blank.

"Sam?" his—father?—questioned gently, as if approaching an injured wild animal.

Sam did not blink. All sound seemed to cease as he ran through everything on his mind. "What the hell?" he blurted, blinking rapidly and recalling the dreams he'd had since he _could_ dream. That was what scared him—he knew they were right.

"We'd been trying for a kid for years, and when we got to the agency...you were perfect. Just past a year old, beautiful, good-tempered...," his—mother?—explained, glancing at her husband for assistance.

These people were supposed to be his parents—how could Sam even begin to grasp that they weren't? But as memories played through his head, odd queues and glances his parents exchanged, missing photos of Sam as a baby, those dreams...Anger welled up within Sam, fists clenched and nostrils flared as he scowled and said, "So when were you going to tell me? I lived for 15, almost 16 years believing a lie, and you have to tell me this with a _stranger_ in the room?"

"Actually, about that...," the unfamiliar man began, standing up and looking almost apologetic as he told Sam, "The reason they told you now is because I finally found you. I...I wasn't in a good place when you were young, and I made a choice that day. I regret it now, I do. I only hope you can forgive me, Sammy."

The teenager's throat blocked up and he stumbled back, choking out, "No. No, you can't—"

"I'm your father," the man put simply, and Sam instantly knew those dark eyes—he seen them in the mirror all his life.

"It's true."

Sam whirled around, nerves sparking wildly and heart palpitating as he saw the stranger from the street, now in the living room's doorway. He hadn't even heard the guy come in. Solemn expression and stance, the young man went on, "He's my dad, too. I'm Dean—I...I still remember you in your nursery, before..." He trailed off, cut off by a warning look from his father. "Anyway, um...welcome to the family."

 _'I have a family, dick,'_ Sam thought, but could only sputter that he needed to go to his room, walking up the steps to the second floor mindlessly and pretending nothing was wrong. Who was he kidding? Everything was wrong.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

"Wine, anyone?" Mrs. Davenport offered bleakly, receiving a weary nod from her husband and a 'yes, thank you' from John.

Dean plopped down onto the seat his little brother had been previously sitting on, announcing, "I'll have a beer, thanks." The couple immediately looked up, fixing him with surprised but disapproving expressions, to which he laughed nervously in realization. "I mean, joke's on you guys! I'll take a—uh, soda. Yeah." They blinked at him, disturbed by his apparent seriousness about wanting alcohol, but eventually both got up and left for the kitchen, leaving two very awkward Winchesters in their living room. Hearing wine pour, John covertly pulled the flask of holy water out of his jacket's interior pocket, grinning mischievously at Dean, who rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. Behind him, John heard the couple enter the room and he slipped the flask back into his jacket. Taking a cue from his dad, Dean cleared his throat as they came back with three glasses of wine and one of brown cola.

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice the view out those windows at the back of the house when I came in—would you mind showing it to me?" Apparently these rich folks were proud of their well-placed home, and jumped at the chance to give Dean a quick tour, leaving John alone the room to slip no more than a few drops worth of holy water in the Davenports's drinks. Maybe two or three minutes passed, and soon all four were back in the room at once, seeming to forget the devastating news they'd just told Sam as they smiled and raised a toast to one another. Sipping on their drinks, the Winchesters froze as they watched the couple ingest holy water laced wine—and begin to cough and choke violently. John instinctively reached for his gun, but refrained from pulling it out when he saw the absence of smoke coming from the two. Furrowing his eyebrows, he looked over at Dean, who held the same confused expression.

Laughing good naturedly, Paul Davenport asked jokingly, "Damn, what's in this stuff?" Jaw stiff and determined, John inquired politely if he could be excused, and Dean soon followed suit. Meeting on the other side of the house by the back door, the two talked in hushed tones and cast worried glances over their shoulders.

"You saw what happened back there, Dean. They're demons, plain and simple," John insisted, eyebrows knitted together and arms crossed.

A slow, aching feeling in the pit of his stomach, Dean shook his head and told his father, "It's not that easy, Dad. We can't just barge in and disrupt Sammy's life like this if he doesn't even remember us." Though John looked doubtful, he agreed he wouldn't go after them—at least for now.


	4. Lunar

It was a miracle Sam even got out of bed at all the next morning, though it was a Saturday so he slept in until noon. But tonight was the night—the night he and Michelle had plans to go out. Together. As a date. Sam decided instead of calling it off with the news he'd gotten, he would go ahead with it to get his mind off of all the crap that life had thrown at him yesterday. Michelle had offered to drive them, since she was a junior and had her own car. Sam had wanted to be the gentleman and pick her up, but they compromised on him taking the wheel once she got to his house. When Sam had asked her where she wanted to go, Michelle had winked and told him to pick anywhere in the whole damn world—God, she was amazing. Sam certainly thought so. And though Sam had first considered the classic 'dinner and a movie', he finally settled on the perfect spot...

McKinley Point?" Michelle snorted, and Sam's smile fell. Her tone softened as she explained, "Sam, you know that's a make-out spot, right?"

Sam's face burned red and he sputtered, "Well, I—I didn't—I actually got the idea from Mark Sato; he told me it was romantic."

"Yeah, he meant sex."

Sam covered his eyes with his left hand, turning away and moaning in embarrassment. Michelle reassured him that it was a great view, anyway, and they did not have to make out if Sam didn't want to.

The park ended up being even better than Sam had pictured; it was certainly a beautiful spot of nature, overlooking the entire city in all its nine o' clock brilliance. Lights from downtown and the suburbs, added with the full moon's bright beacon, lent a fairytale quality to the night and cast fantastical shadows across the forest behind them. Michelle had allowed Sam to drive (he did have his permit) to the spot, which had taken almost twenty minutes meandering down a confusing road built into the forest. The two were standing, leaning against the hood of the car and admiring the view, Elvis music playing on an oldies station softly from the car's radio. Michelle sighed, content and peaceful. Sam was enjoying it, too, but was currently chewing on his lip and going over if and how he should tell her what had happened the day before. Glancing over at him, Michelle inquired gently, "Sam, what's bothering you?"

Sam smiled absentmindedly and told her it was nothing, but after a stern look from Michelle, he broke down and told her, "I just got some really big news."

Michelle grinned. "Stanford big?"

"Bigger."

She raised an eyebrow, commenting, "That _is_ huge. Spill."

Massaging the back of his neck nervously and stopping soon after because it reminded him of Dean, Sam sighed and plodded on verbally, "Well...this...guy came up to me on my way home from school yesterday and...he...told me I was his brother." He paused, earning from Michelle a curious expression and an urge to continue. "I ran home, thought he was just a grade-A freak, but...when I got home, my parents...kind of told me I was...adopted?"

The reveal came out almost like a question and Michelle just blinked at him. Slowly, she asked, "So...did you talk to your brother? Do you know your biological parents?" She peered at him for a moment. "Are you Jewish?"

Sam snorted, knowing she was joking. "No, as far as I know. But I did meet a man—a man who says he's my biological dad."

Michelle's eyes grew wide, inquiring seriously, "What was he like?"

Sam shrugged, almost sullen at the mention of the man. "He's okay, I guess. He definitely doesn't look like he works an office job, though. I don't know, there's something about him...he looks like he's seen some pretty gruesome stuff, you know?"

Michelle nodded in response to Sam's thoughtful question. "Vietnam?" she suggested.

"Probably," Sam replied, and listened to the quiet chirping of the crickets nearby and the wind whispering through the trees. After a long bout of silence, Sam admitted quietly, "I'm scared," sounding young and almost childish. Michelle wore a pitying expression, but said nothing for fear she would interrupt his sudden candor. "I'm scared, and—and I'm confused, and I don't know how I'm supposed to handle this; I already _have_ a family, I don't need these people barging in and acting like they've forgotten they were the ones who gave me up in the first place. They abandoned me and they just want to pick up right where they left off? _Hell_ no; it won't happen. I'm already 15, and I am so not looking for this drama right now..."

He sighed sharply, glancing over at Michelle for her reaction. She had a slight, hesitant, and adorable lop-sided smile that made Sam laugh out of the blue. "What?" she asked, endearing in her momentary cluelessness.

Her smile spread as Sam explained, "God, this is insane. Not only are my parents not my parents, but I'm whining about my problems to _Michelle freaking Benson_."

She raised an eyebrow, amused. "Michelle _freaking_ Benson, huh?"

Sam nodded astutely, satisfied with his answer. And, on a whim, Michelle freaking Benson grabbed Sam's jacket and kissed him. Full-on, lip-to-lip, and dizzyingly perfect. Once the two broke away, Sam looked dazed, blinking and a little wobbly, balance-wise. "Wow," he breathed, and Michelle laughed softly, reaching over to turn up the radio. Elvis was on again.

The night slowed from that point, eventually landing with the two sitting in the front seats of the car and looking out at the sleepless city, quite sleepy themselves. The topic they were conversing in tired, worn-out voices was dreams, currently. Namely weird ones. "You know," Sam mumbled, limbs heavy as he rested his arm around Michelle's shoulders next to him, "There's this one dream that I've had since I was really young—like, as far back as I can remember. And in the dream, there's this woman—long blonde hair, like yours—and she's standing over my cradle, singing Beatles songs and calling me Sam-I-Am...and I get the feeling, in the dream...that she's my mother."

Michelle, lids previously drooping, opened her eyes fully then, looking over at Sam in surprise. "Your mother?"

Sam nodded, a sad, nostalgic look in his eyes as he stared out the windshield.

"What do you think happened to her?" Michelle asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Pursing his lips in thought, Sam took a moment before answering, "I don't know for sure. But I feel somehow like she's...gone now. For good."

Though a chill ran down her spine at his words, Michelle suggested, "Maybe your dad just divorced her," almost hopefully, as opposed to any alternative.

"Maybe," Sam murmured, wishing he could believe but knowing somehow that she was wrong.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

At the moment, neither John nor Dean could focus on the hunt like they normally did. Branches scratched at their heads and the full moon shone onto the forest's path, signaling the perfect setting for a werewolf hunt—but the only topic of conversation for most of the night was Samuel Winchester. Sniffling lightly from the slight chill in the woods, Dean looked up at the sky as he inquired, "What if it's not in the woods tonight?" That night was crucial, as it was the last time the creature would show up until the next month.

"Dean, trust me on this—it's in the woods," John told his son tiredly, before glancing up at the sky and asking, "So what did you find out about Sammy?"

Boots crunching against the early-autumn leaves, the two both felt the wind change, the warm feeling of home when Sam was mentioned. Fighting a grin, Dean shifted his hands on his shotgun and replied, "He just goes after everything, Sam does. Straight A's, honor roll, chess, literary club, orchestra...the kid's a genius, Dad."

John looked thoughtful for a moment, slowing his gait and saying, "I just hope he'll be able to keep up with us on a hunt." Dean's heart sank a little at the thought of the 15 year-old getting hurt or shooting a gun or moving from town to town to town...

He mumbled a half-hearted, "Yeah," and wondered what his nerdy little brother was doing right then.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

Michelle, to Sam's surprise, began to fall asleep only a few minutes after his confession about his dreams—and her head was resting against his chest. He blushed, considering setting her against her seat's head rest, but deciding against it. In that moment, everything seemed right in the world; the only sounds were of the forest's nocturnal song, and Sam's chest rose and fell comfortably against Michelle's long, blonde hair and soft eyelashes. A sense of peace and calm that Sam hadn't felt in a long time settled in, and he closed his eyes for a second to take it all in. But nothing gold can stay, and this was a golden moment, indeed. Sam felt Michelle begin to shift, but not in a way one moved after having fallen asleep—quick, jerky movements. Aggressive.

"Michelle?" he inquired sleepily, looking down at her as she broke away sharply. And what he saw—Michelle's kind, doe-brown eyes now glowed a pale blue, her teeth elongated and terrifying, and Michelle herself growled inhumanly at Sam. Scrambling away with his heart in his throat and panting wildly, Sam cried, "Michelle?!" but got no response but the creature's constant guttural snarling. She only stayed back tensely for a few seconds before lunging toward a screaming Sam Davenport. It was all a blur, Sam falling out of the car and stumbling away as Michelle—or whatever she was—approached him with her animalistic and frightening powder blue eyes following him like he was prey. He probably was at that moment.

And suddenly, damp grass clenched in his hands and wind tearing through his hair, Sam heard a shot ring out across the clearing, followed by frantic yelling and heavy footfalls. Coming into view, Sam recognized his supposed father and brother and leapt to his feet, shaken. Michelle, still monstrous in appearance and action, side-stepped around the car, teeth bared and eyes trained on the man and Dean. Both men boldly held out aimed shotguns, to which Sam shouted, "No! Don't shoot!" They seemed to notice Sam then, but after glancing over at him, the two gave chase to Michelle, running her into the woods while Sam, confused and overwhelmed, followed them.

"Wait!" he called, pushing branches aside and feeling a gnawing sense of hopelessness grow in his stomach. Only a few yards ahead of Sam, the two men stopped, staring and pointing their guns at something. Sam began to catch up then, hearing as he came closer the frustrated growls coming from the mouth of the small cave in the face of the rocky cliff straight ahead. Remembering Michelle's soft breathing as she fell asleep and the way her nose crinkled when she laughed gave Sam strength to shout then, "Hey! Get away from her!" At that moment, it didn't matter what Michelle was—it only mattered that Sam get her out of this alive. Though his father kept his eyes and gun trained on the cave, Dean looked over at Sam with a pitying expression on his face. _'No,'_ Sam thought, _'I don't need your pity.'_ Clenching his fists and setting his jaw, Sam called out, determined, "Her name is Michelle, and you have no right to chase her like this."

"Sam, you know something's wrong with her," the older of the two men calmly said. "And we happen to know for a fact that she's killed before."

"You're lying," Sam sneered, but painfully doubted his own words.

Dean's sympathetic, vibrantly green eyes were still on Sam, and he explained then, "Sam, Michelle is what you'd call a werewolf. Sounds crazy, I know, but it's true. Why else do you think she's like this? It's a full moon tonight." Despite himself, Sam gazed up at the sky. Damn it, Dean was right. Why did he have to be right? But that didn't mean that Michelle was...what, a werewolf?

"Bullshit," Sam called, forcing himself to sound defiant and confident even though he was scared as hell.

The man who was apparently his father shot back, "Bullshit or not, this girl is a monster who's killed 3 already and will kill again unless we stop her."

Heart pounding, Sam exhaled testily and replied, "'Stop' as in kill her."

"Yes."

The response was surprisingly cool-headed and completely tolerating of such a horrible act, making Sam take a step back out of shock. The man, eyes never having left the mouth of the cave, cocked his shotgun, setting off something inside Sam so that he leapt toward them, only to be stopped by Dean's thick arms and rough hands. Struggling urgently against Dean holding him back, Sam cried with tears in his throat, "Don't you dare! Get away from her, you hear me?!" Limbs flailing and pushing to break free, Sam felt, for the first time in his short life, true, pure, _real_ desperation.

Then the shot came.

It was loud, louder than he'd ever heard. He thought he might've gone deaf until he heard Dean whispering that it was going to be okay. Fuck no, it wasn't.

Sam's body was almost numb now, as he realized that Michelle freaking Benson, sweet smile and sarcastic jokes and incredible understanding and all...was dead.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, voice breaking and eyes wide.

Sam's chest began to heave, breaths loud and panicked. "Don't call me that," he whispered dangerously, eyes red-hot as tears streamed onto his cheeks. Able to break away from Dean finally, Sam took steady, careful steps away from him. Voice heavy with the anger he felt and choked with tears, Sam screamed, "I hate you!" His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and accusing; the man and Dean simply looked sympathetic—not even a modicum of regret showed. Sam tore out of the woods, finding his rage and pain and sorrow pushed him to run all the way home without looking back once. Good. He hoped he would never have to look back again.


	5. Winning Isn't Everything

Sam spent the next three days in his room, only leaving to occasionally go to the bathroom and take something from the kitchen. What the hell was happening to his life? Less than a week ago he'd been dreaming of kissing Michelle Benson and worrying about getting an A plus in his orchestra sectionals. Now he was questioning his biological heritage and wondering how Michelle's body was going to be hidden. John—as Sam had discovered the man's name was—and Dean were probably long gone and had already buried her. Sam hoped they were gone forever so he could forget everything. His parents had been concerned, and still were, but didn't pry, and let him be alone. He needed it.

But the third day in, a soft rap sounded on Sam's whitewood door, startling him out of his thoughts. He would ignore it, he decided, knowing eventually his mom would walk away. But to his curiosity, his best friend Jimmy called softly, "Sam? Sam, open the door." Though aware he probably looked less than presentable, Sam crept up to the door and answered it, opening the door just a crack to see Jimmy's confused and caring expression. "Sam, what happened?" Jimmy murmured, and Sam could almost see his heart break right before his eyes.

Casting his gaze down for a moment, he admitted, "Something awful. I—I can't tell you, I wish I could, but..." He trailed off, and looked back up at his friend.

The quiet crept in until Jimmy blurted, "You've been gone for three days, Sam. I can tell this is doing something to you; you have to tell me what happened. Please. Is it—is it your adoption? Your parents told me, but you went out with Michelle, I thought you were—"

"You want to know if I'm doing fine?" Sam asked bitterly, laughing humorlessly and saying sarcastically, "I'm doing _fantastic_." Jimmy bit his lip, looking sorry for his friend—Sam hated pity, at least at the moment, and was about to speak up when someone came running up to the door, behind Jimmy. Sam's adoptive mother. His adoptive father soon came as well, both with grave but urgent expressions. "What is it?" Sam asked, looking from one to the other.

The adults looked at Jimmy for a moment, silently asking him to leave. "I'll go," Jimmy sighed, glancing over at his friend, worried before turning away. Sam blinked at his parents, waiting for their news.

Cindy Davenport bit her lip hesitantly before admitting quietly, "Sam we just found out; that man, John Winchester? He's...he's starting a custody battle. We have to be at the courthouse tomorrow at 4."

His stomach sank—he'd thought it couldn't get any worse, but apparently he couldn't be farther from the truth. His gaze flickering to his expectant parents, he gave them the quick, unconvincing reassurance of a smile. Sam then closed the door on them, needing time to think even though he'd spent the past three days just thinking. Sliding down the door with his back against it, Sam found he couldn't come close to imagining what he'd do if his parents lost the lawsuit—he didn't even really know John and Dean. He did know, however, that they were psychos.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

The case took almost a week, meeting every day for five days, until the Monday that the jury promised would be the last day in court. Sam was sitting outside the courtroom for the last leg of the trial, hunched over with his knees far apart and his elbows resting on his thighs heavily. He detested this, an uncomfortable brown tweed suit on and a stomach ache... Playing with his fingers anxiously, he heard footsteps approaching and glanced up. Sam recognized Dean immediately and frowned deeply.

"What do you want?" he muttered spitefully, looking down at his tight, black dress shoes again.

Dean sounded hesitant and almost nervous as he spoke, Sam could only see the nineteen year old's heavy brown combat boots. "Listen, I'm sorry for all this drama. This crazy court stuff isn't what I wanted, not really." As he paused, a gavel could be heard in the next room, banging against the wood of the desk decisively. Flickering his gaze up to Dean briefly, Sam noticed the young man chewing on his lip in a fumbling effort to put his thoughts into the right words. Eventually, Dean managed to croak out, "I'm sorry about your girl."

Sam continued to stare at the thin, pale brown carpet at his feet, even as a shadow fell across his shoes. It was John, he could feel it. A sinking sensation pulled Sam's shoulders down as the man began to speak. "Sam...," John started, then paused as if waiting for Sam's attention. He didn't look up. John continued, firmly telling him, "You're a Winchester now, son."

Sam wanted to be angry, to yell, to protest, to make it known how much he hated John and Dean Winchester. But he was just too tired. Too numb.

"We won?" he heard Dean say, somehow far away, as if in a dream or beneath some deep, sleepy bay.

"Yeah," John replied, looking over at Sam, who was still staring at the ground, unmoving. "Yeah, we won."

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

A sharp, twisting sensation in his stomach reminded Sam how much he was going to miss his home, Rosemary Heights, his friend, his life...his parents. Sam's heart ached as he thought about them...they hadn't been perfect, as no one was, but they were supportive and loving and understanding and damn whoever tried to take him away from them. Yet here he was, in the backseat of John and Dean's black car, the only bag he'd brought and packed on his lap as he wrapped his arms around it and looked out the window absently. He'd just had to say goodbye to Jimmy, his mother and father, his teachers, every other friend he had, and his life as he knew it. He'd had to say goodbye to Michelle a while ago—he didn't even know why he hadn't been arrested for her murder. Sam thought with a chill that maybe Jimmy was the only living person besides him who knew that Michelle had gone out that night with Sam.

Distracted by his thoughts, Sam almost didn't notice the car begin to drive off, his biological brother and father now in the front. _'Funny,'_ Sam thought bitterly as he looked back out the window, _'I always wanted a brother. Didn't know how much I wish I could take that back now.'_ Along the ride (wherever the hell they were heading), John and Dean tried talking to Sam, connecting to him in any way—their attempts fell short, of course. Almost two hours later, the noonday sun high and mentally ready for lunch, Dean turned the radio on and up. Pat Benatar was singing loud and Dean took to performing at the top of his lungs alongside. John turned it slightly down but grinned a touch at the corner of his mouth. Dean's singing and John's smile irked Sam, but more than that—it set off something inside him, some squirming truth he'd been suppressing ever since the two had showed up.

"SHUT UP!" he shouted, surprising the two in front with his abrupt demand. Turning down the radio, John frowned deeply and pulled over to the side of the back-road. Almost panting, eyes wide and voice harsh, Sam told the two, "How can you be so at ease with this? You show up, ruin my life, kill an innocent girl, then drive out of town with me like I'm some prize? Stop acting like you _own_ me! I'm not a piece of luggage you can just throw in the trunk. You took me away from my family, my friends, my home, my entire life, and you're singing to the radio? Fuck you. I hate you. I don't want a single _iota_ of your life, and I sure as hell don't want to be _your_ son or _your_ brother." John and Dean simply blinked at Sam, stunned by his sudden fire. Feeling his anger break down and dissolve, Sam cried, "You never once talked to me before taking me away! You never asked me what I wanted!"

Breathing heavily, he almost didn't hear Dean murmur quietly, "What do you want?"

"I just want to go home," Sam told them, finally breaking down into a sob, sniffling and rubbing his face as the hot, salty tears poured out. John and Dean watched Sam cry, completely clueless as to what to do. After almost a full five minutes, John Winchester turned back to the wheel, shifted the gear, and drove back onto the road.

"Sam," he told his son unflinchingly, "I'm going to teach you how to control your emotions so you don't cry like a little girl again."

Sam sniffled loudly in the backseat.

Glancing back at him in the rearview mirror, John continued, "And as for your family, me and Dean are all you will ever need, I can promise you that. The road is your home now, son, and you'd better just get used to that."

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

The first week was the worst. Not only did Sam have to get used to the fact that his name was Sam Winchester now, but he had to wrap his head around the existence of every paranormal, fantastical creature he had ever read about—and Sam read a lot. John and Dean took him shooting, showed him how to untie ropes if he was captured, made him memorize some Latin incantation John swore would 'save lives' in the future—the list of crazy went on. Often, conversations like the following occurred:

"What do you know about vampires, Sam?"

"Uhh...I watched Buffy once...?"

Though Sam did respond more to Dean than John, he was still relatively quiet and avoidant. John knew Sam's traits were ill-suited for the life of a hunter—he thought too much, calculated, empathized. And one cloudy, post-wendigo hunt Wednesday, rain began to fall on the Impala, running its wet, crystal rivulets down its windows—and John realized something.

"Sam?" he inquired, and only got a quiet grunt as acknowledgement he'd been heard. Without looking at the backseat where Sam was, he announced resolutely, "I've noticed you've been calling me 'John'…."

Sam furrowed his eyebrows and frowned, knowing vaguely where this was going.

"Call me Dad. Okay?"

Setting his jaw, Sam looked out the window, obstinately refusing to reply.

"Answer me, Sam," John said dangerously, and Dean flashed him a look.

"Yes, sir," Sam muttered, eyes meeting his father's only for a second before turning back to the outside world. He wished urgently he could open the door and speed across the fields surrounding the road, straight to his parents.

December, January, February, March, and April passed by, and on May 2nd, Dean came back to their motel room in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin with a surprise for Sam. Grinning proudly, he approached the ever-moping Sam and brought out a cupcake with chocolate frosting and a bright yellow candle atop, lit up. Dean had remembered Sam's birthday from the file he'd read on him, and decided to try and cheer him up.

"Happy sixteenth, little brother," he congratulated and held the cupcake out.

Sam barely looked at it, asking bitterly, "What, did you steal that from a little kid's birthday party?"

Dean frowned. Why was Sam so hard to get close to? Muttering a quick birthday spiel, Dean then blew out the candle and placed the cupcake on the side table next to bed Sam was sitting on, resolving to then walk away.

Not even a week later, the Winchester three ended up in Billings, Montana, hunting whatever the hell was killing folks. Nights were the only relatively quiet part of the day, and Sam should've been asleep by midnight, but sleep just would not take hold. Lying awake, staring at the ceiling blankly, the familiar rev of a familiar engine cut through the silence. His heart skipped a beat and he leapt up, looking out the window with an aching hope he'd tried to push away all these nights. Pushing back the curtain, Sam gazed out on the dark parking lot and, in an instant, saw it. His parent's car.

That dark blue BMW, with his parents smiling at him from inside, made Sam practically pounce for the door, fingers trembling with excitement as he turned the knob. Dean and John were asleep and his parents were there for him—it couldn't get any better. Slipping out of the motel room and closing the door behind him, Sam didn't care that he only had on socks, sweatpants, and a flannel. As he approached the BMW, his parents got out of the car, giving him a bear hug when he reached them that would have embarrassed him in any other situation.

Holding back tears, Sam broke away and asked them, "How did you guys find me? We've been all over."

Cindy Davenport bit her lip and looked at her husband, eventually replying, "It's a long story. Are you okay?"

Sam nodded, grinning as he sighed contentedly, "I'm great now. God, I missed you."

Paul Davenport took on a lopsided grin and suggested, "You don't have to miss us. We could go—now; together."

Sam's smile faltered for a moment, looking thoughtful before inquiring, "Wouldn't that be...I don't know, illegal?"

His adoptive mother's eyes pleaded as she did, "At least we'll be together. It has to be better than living in a motel with people you don't know, Sam."

He paused. "No, you're right. Let's go," he told them firmly, beginning to walk towards their car. But it all fell apart in the moment they heard a shotgun being cocked behind them, loud, abrupt, and threatening. All three's arms flew up and Sam screwed his eyes shut—he knew who it was behind him.

"Turn around," the warning, solemn voice of John Winchester ordered. The man was no ameteur with a shotgun, and held it with a determined, grim air. Sam and the Davenports shifted then, listening to John by facing him. Paul and Cindy looked terrified, but Sam's face was twisted into a mask of hatred, disgust, and rage that no sixteen year old should ever have. Jaw set and eyes fierce, John was clearly not going to back down anytime soon. "Just try to take my son. I dare you," he declared, voice gravelly and tight. Lowering his arms slowly but deliberately, Sam's hazel-green eyes kept on John and narrowed.

"You're not my father. Not really."

John's reply was patient but dangerous, his shotgun still aimed at all three. "Sam, get back in the room now or I'll 'not really' shoot these people."

 _'He would do it,'_ Sam thought reluctantly. _'He's a psycho.'_ But, pushing every fear, uncertainty, and hesitance aside, he found himself standing up to John. "You know what?" he asked, looking him straight in the eyes, "I think you're all bark and no bite. You had me going for a minute, you really did, but I know you won't do a damn thing. Mom, Dad, get in the car. We're leaving."

John's eyes were ablaze with anger but he made no move. Paul and Cindy looked at Sam in shock, hands still above their heads. He stubbornly turned back to the car, motioning that they follow suit, but the minute he could no longer see John, he heard the motel door slam open and he whirled around. Standing tense just outside the doorway was Dean, boxers and a wife beater tank-top on as he yelled under the dim yellow parking lot's overhead light, "Come and get it, you sons of bitches!"

And with a great swing of his bare arms, Dean splashed a large amount of water from a jug onto the Davenport couple. The scene was an instant eruption of hissing steam and inhuman screeching, along with the terrifying flash of pitch-black, glaring eyes. It was as if their pupils had ballooned in area and covered the entire surface of their eyes. Sam stumbled back and away from them, devastation and confusion and betrayal and a million emotions clear on his face. As the two—whatever they were—panted and snarled and glared, a momentary lull came over the parking lot. Two a.m. police sirens sounded in the distance; an owl hooted in a nearby tree; a car passed by with blearingly bright headlights that came and went.

"We'll be back, Winchester," one of them snapped, and John aimed his gun straight at the creature's heart.

"Stop!" Dean cried, then hissed at his father, "There are people in there, Dad. You would be killing them."

One of them, the one who looked like Cindy Davenport, sneered, "Why wouldn't John want to kill us? Paul and Cindy raised his son, and damn, is he pissed about that. Look at him."

The elder Winchester was indeed seething, nostrils flaring and eyes burning in rage. "Drive. Away." He hammered out each word with a ferocity that caught the attention of the Davenports.

But nevertheless, they got into the dark blue BMW just behind them, calling as they sped away, "Make sure Sammy takes his vitamins!" hooting with laughter before disappearing into the night.


	6. Hell Is Other People

Throughout the two months that passed after that night, the underlying, ever-present question was this: how long had Sam's adoptive parents been possessed? It was at the back of the Winchester's minds as Dean and John trained Sam to become a hunter. It wasn't easy; Sam was just too thoughtful and too gentle to go as far as Dean did so effortlessly. He was used to an expansive house, money in abundance, nice clothes, and plenty of friends—now he only ever saw Dean and John, slept in 30 dollar motel rooms, and wore old denim and flannel. Though it was hard for him to adjust, Sam never did complain. However, he seemed distracted most days, lost in a daydream—and at the end of every day he holed up somewhere comfortable and wrote in his journal. At least that's what Dean assumed it was; John had one, too. Journals were supposed to help, help burning emotions be released, help the voices in your head make sense—essential for a hunter. Dean had a feeling Sam had kept one all his life, though.

Sam, as the ramshackle little family had discovered, was the best of the three, maybe the best in the country, at researching for hunts—finding what to hunt next and how to kill it and how to make years of credit card fraud quietly slip away. He never liked doing it, Dean could tell, but Sam said continuously, _'Anything to keep those things away.'_ He meant the Davenports.

One night, thunder booming and lightning flashing ominously outside, Dean crept into their current motel room, soaking wet and still chuckling quietly as he thought of hot, hot Rita Simone. However, his thoughts were frayed and tucked away as he noticed his little brother, out-cold asleep at the table, surrounded by books and papers with the golden light of a nearby lamp illuminating his exhausted position. Dean couldn't help but smile softly as he picked Sam up (with some difficulty) and placed him gently on his bed, then turned off the lamp and pulled the covers over his little brother. He himself was headed for the shower, the starburst analog clock above the table reading 2:05 am when...there it was, opened to its most recent entry and littered with doodles in its margins. Sam's journal.

Curiosity itched and burned until Dean reached for the notebook almost subconsciously, all the while mentally making up useless excuses as to why he should read it. And, despite the uncomfortability of it all, Dean sat down at the motel's table and began to read the entry of July 25th, 1999—that day.

 _Dean is incredible at hiding his emotions. I don't know how he does it so easily—my guess is that he's had to do it his whole life. Sometimes I almost feel sorry for the guy, but then I remember that he physically held me back while my 'father' shot and killed a girl in front of me. And not just any girl._ _ **Michelle**_ _. God, I want to run away. But something tells me I wouldn't exactly get along well if I did._

Dean frowned, furrowing his eyebrows and flipping the pages, searching for any further paragraphs. There was a deep, squirming discomfort in the pit of his stomach, and he shifted in his seat, still frowning. Sam's recorded thoughts struck a chord in Dean, and he glanced over at his sleeping brother on his bed, as if he could get answers simply by looking at him. Did he really think these things? He wished Sam trusted him more and would just talk to him already. Of course, he wished his life wasn't just a shit pile of excuses and bad memories, but hey, here he was. Sam shifted and moaned softly in his sleep, and Dean stiffened at the noise, easily agitated. Looking down hesitantly at the open journal on the table, Dean stood up and headed for the shower, deciding to push every thought of the entry aside. He was good at forgetting.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

Only a week and a half later, high on adrenaline and staring straight into a demon's nightmarish black eyes, John Winchester laughed with a bitter edge, "Looks like you need to pay more attention to your surroundings." The demon's previously leering face fell, gaze shooting down to the floor then to the ceiling, where a makeshift devil's trap was constructed in cheap red spray paint. The setting—10:45 pm in an evacuated police station; Toussaint, Florida. Sam was nervously holding John's journal in his mildly shaking hands, opened to the page with an exorcism scribbled down. It was a good thing Sam took freshman Latin. Dean, face scratched up to hell, grinned as Sam began to read off the exorcism hesitantly.

"That's what you get, you son of a bitch," Dean remarked with satisfaction, but was cut off near the end by the demon laughing maniacally.

The sudden, disturbing outburst took the Winchesters aback, but just as John began to tell Sam to continue, the demon cackled, "Poor little Sammy boy. He has no idea, does he?"

Sam snapped his eyes over to the demon, looking almost hungry for information.

"He doesn't know what?" John growled, circling the devil's trap and the possessed man within it.

"Well, I'm here, about to be sent back to hell, and you Winchesters are so hopelessly clueless...it's almost cute. I mean, you've gotta appreciate how funny this is, right, Sam? After all, you _were_ raised by demons your whole life."

The demon's dark, triumphant words hit Sam like a ton of bricks and he stepped back an inch, blinking rapidly and his grip on John's journal faltering. Wrenching the book out of his son's hands, John started to read the exorcism, shouting and glaring at the demon. With the last words of the incantation, thick, suffocating black smoke poured from the man's mouth, spiking up before being pulled down sharply through the floor and disappearing abruptly. The man previously possessed collapsed subsequently, and Dean rushed to help him get a firm footing before standing up. Sam was frozen, staring at he devil's trap on the ceiling with an indeterminate expression on his face; his mouth had the tangy, metallic taste of blood and his arms felt limp at his sides.

"Great," John grumbled, dropping his journal into his duffel bag and glancing up at the devil's trap, as well. "Now we have to clean up this shit." He gestured to the ceiling and Dean groaned with similar annoyance. The two more experienced hunters glanced at Sam, who was still immobile and clearly devastated, and shared a knowing look before continuing on with their task while avoiding Sam. Eventually, the clock reading 11:52, three very tired Winchesters piled into the Impala and drove back to their temporary home—a little motel with generous AC and an odd name like The Purple Golf Ball or something. They would likely leave in the morning.

On the way to the motel, Dean grabbed the front of his own shirt and shook it to fan himself, then peered back at his little brother, who was looking out the window thoughtfully. Very emo, if you asked Dean. "So, Sammy...," he began, and was surprised when the sixteen year old didn't immediately correct him with a sharp, _'Sam'_. "How are you doing?" Dean asked, sincerely concerned about his little brother. He himself was freaking out internally from the news that may or may not have been true—their family of three hadn't even talked about it yet.

Dean only waited a moment before Sam answered bitterly, still gazing out the window, "How the hell do you think I'm doing?"

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

"Ow. That hurt."

A hiss of a reply came abruptly from behind him, somewhat disembodied, "It's an exorcism. It's supposed to hurt."

"I know, I know," he shot back tiredly. God, he hated his co-workers.

So. Hell. What was new, right?

The distant tortured screams of souls echoed down the ever-stretching corridors that O'Connell navigated with experienced ease. Low, reddish lights led the way until O'Connell reached what he remembered to be the room in which a very special someone had promised to meet him.

The temperatures in Hell were constantly changing; one minute you were broiling, the next you were freezing—O'Connell loathed it. But, of course, it _was_ Hell. Heat, or the absence of it, was the least of his problems.

A shocking blast of unbearable humidity hit the room the second the door opened behind him, and a gravelly, jovial voice exclaimed, "O'Connell, buddy! How's Sammy doing?"

Swiveling his head and gaze to his side as Azazel walked in with long, heavy strides, the demon felt a smile pull at his lips as he replied, "He's doing great. He's getting tougher, better at hunting—but he still doesn't like or trust John and Dean."

Azazel grinned, yellow eyes marbled with sick satisfaction and disturbing pride. "Good, good." He paused. "You know," he mused, leaning back in his chair and squaring his shoulders, "I almost wanna take a trip up there and check on the little rugrat myself. Wow, that'd made my day. Hmm." He chewed his lip for a beat, momentarily wistful before leaping up and proclaiming, "But not just yet." He looked at O'Connell then, winking playfully before his face darkened and he said dangerously, "Let's just hope that the Davenports step up and do their damn job."


	7. Weekend At Bobby's

Sam Winchester was adjusting with grueling resistance to the hunting life. He'd just broken his wrist on a werewolf hunt, and was currently attending his twelfth school since St. Joseph's. Everything was always changing; every time he thought something was certain, it turned out to be false. God, he missed normalcy. He was a sucker for the comfort of stability, and to hell if the life he was living right now wasn't everything he hated. But he was catching on, starting to roll with the punches. For God's sakes, he'd just been told that ghosts were real and he hadn't blinked. It was nearly a year now since John and Dean had showed up in Sam's life and changed it forever. Sam didn't like it, in fact he loathed it. But there was something to be said for adjustment. Sam did it spectacularly. Not as good as Dean did it, but no one succeeded more in pretending to be a hotshot hunter than Dean.

It was four weeks into the school year, and because of Sam's wrist and a dozen other pent-up emotions and events, Dean suggested they spend the weekend at Bobby's.

Sam, of course, had no idea who Bobby was, but was interested, at least.

It took a lot of convincing, but eventually John agreed and the defunct little family drove to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, the hot sun on their tails. Dean went on and on the whole drive there about how great Bobby was and how much Sam would love him. The more he talked about the guy, the more Sam suspected that Bobby held a more important role in Dean's life than he thought, but Sam didn't say anything of this. He just smiled and nodded as Dean kept talking.

Eventually, the three reached the two-story blue-gray house amidst the 'Singer Salvage Yard' that covered the area with dilapidated, rusty vehicles. The faint scents of wood smoke and whiskey greeted them at the door before Bobby did, a tired but appreciative smile on his grizzled, bearded face. The man was a couple inches shorter than Dean, a harried baseball cap on his head and a dark brown vest over his flannel. Something about the man's eyes, the kindness just under a gruff exterior, made Sam relax for the first time in a long time. He exhaled slowly and quietly, his previous dissatisfied frown melting into the hopeful tilt of a smile.

"The Winchesters. Didn't think I'd see you for a while," Bobby remarked, crossing his arms and fighting a grin. Noting Sam's presence behind John and Dean on the bottom step, he raised an eyebrow and said, "And I see you've brought a friend."

"Actually, about that...," John began, almost nervously, then leaned forward and whispered something into Bobby's ear. The older man's eyes widened and snapped over to Sam, who was sheepishly rubbing his own forearms. Drawing away from Bobby, John bit his lip, looking for a response from him with pleading eyes. Sam's stomach sank for a moment in the waiting of it all, but within an instant, Bobby shoved past John to wrap Sam in an unyielding embrace that, honestly, startled the teenager.

When he finally broke away, Bobby looked heartbroken, murmuring, "Sam? It's really you?"

Swallowing hard and nodding his head in one swoop, Sam replied tersely, "Yup." He wanted to dislike Bobby, simply on principle and since John and Dean clearly liked him. But there was something to him that made Sam feel like he could trust him, like he would feel at home just being with the guy.

After inviting the three in, Bobby pulled out a photo album, opening it to a page with four pictures. All were of a younger Dean holding a baby, two with John behind Dean. Sitting down slowly at the table Bobby had put the album on, Sam studied the pictures, feeling both men exchange glances behind him. A strange, hollow resonance sounded in Sam as he examined Dean's joy, John's pride, his own tiny, infant smile. It was more than odd, seeing the first baby pictures of himself though he was already 16 years old. Surprisingly, Sam found himself pitying the Dean in the photos. That Dean had no idea of the crap that would happen to him, because Sam knew that something horrible must have happened some time after this picture was taken in order to push John into hunting.

Gently, Bobby's hand rested on Sam's shoulder, a welcome anchor to reality, and he told him softly, "Sam, if you ever want to talk, I'm always here. It's been damn awful having you gone all these years, but at least you're here now. And...well, I'm real happy you are, Sam."

Taking himself off-guard, Sam replied, "Me, too." And he meant it.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

Crickets chirped and lights grew dim as the sun sank low, casting deep, complex shadows over the salvage yard. Dean was already upstairs in his room, and John was taking a shower, close to getting out soon. Sam took the opportunity to approach Bobby, who was sitting pensively on the front steps of the house, gazing westward at the setting sun. Low, vibrant reds and oranges populated the horizon as Sam stepped near Bobby, who looked up at him with glowing admiration. "I came out here to talk," Sam admitted, staring out at the sky.

Shifting just a touch, Bobby invited, "Well, sit down, then. You don't need to be afraid 'a me."

"And I'm not," Sam told him sincerely, sitting next to the man on the same step. "It's just...I don't really have anyone to talk to." Bobby opened his mouth to talk, but the teen cut him off. "Look, I know what you're going to say. That—that John and Dean are my family, and I need to trust them, but...honestly, sometimes they scare me. And not just because they do crazy stuff, but because they actually seem to...I don't know, _like_ what they're doing."

After a beat, Bobby spoke up, hesitant but willing to help. "Sam...you've gotta remember, Dean's been hunting since he was a youngin'. He barely remembers life without it."

Sam nodded, eyes still searching empty space with a thoughtful expression. Putting his head down and lacing his fingers together behind it, Sam felt his voice break as he confessed, "I feel like my life is a lie. I mean, my parents weren't my parents...hell, my parents weren't even _human_." He choked out a laugh, sitting up and running his hands through his hair hastily before looking at Bobby, almost begging for a response with his sad, brown-green eyes.

"Sam...," he began, but paused for a moment, closing his eyes and sighing quietly. "I can't pretend to know what you're going through. But I've survived some crap, and I can tell you that it gets better. Maybe not by much, and maybe not immediately, but it doesn't stay this confusing for long. You'll get your head around it. I promise."

Smiling a touch, Sam breathed evenly and looked, if only for a moment, heavenly...almost angel-like. Soft brown hair swaying in the light breeze, Sam laughed—a wonderful sound—and pulled at his hoodie's drawstrings absentmindedly. "Thanks, Mr. Singer."

"Why don't you call me Bobby," the elder of the two said and smiled, his suggestion accepted by the younger.

But the teenager's expression of happiness faded swiftly as he prepared himself to ask a question. "Mr.—Bobby...I need to ask you something."

"Shoot."

After a second of hesitation, Sam started, "I've been afraid to ask for a while now, but I've been thinking about it for a long time. Who—God, how do I put this? What happened to my—well, me and Dean's mom?"

The question was an effective silencer, and Bobby looked sorrowful, almost regretful when glancing sideways at Sam. Shoulders sagging, Sam mentally prepared himself for whatever Bobby might say. "I'm real sorry, Sam. She...she died when you were a baby. In your nursery. I'm...I'm so sorry."

Eyebrows upturned, Sam stared at his long fingers resting on his lap, lips slightly parted in surprise. "So...," he spoke up after a while, voice almost hoarse before he cleared his throat and continued. "So she died in my room. My room."

Bobby saw where he was going and broke in. "Let me stop you right there. It was not your fault—!"

"Why did my father give me up for adoption?" Sam cut in, gaze steely as he made solid eye contact with Bobby.

Struggling for words, the elder of the two began to shake his head, finally stuttering out, "Sam, I—I don't think that—that—"

"Bobby, please," Sam pled, unintentionally pulling out the puppy-dog eyes.

Exasperated, Bobby sighed and took his cap off for a second, wringing it once before putting it back on anxiously. Chewing on his lip momentarily, he finally have way and began, "When you were a baby—"

But a familiar voice behind them cut him off, interrupting with a gruff amusement, "Sam, why don't you head off to bed now?" The light of the sun gone now, the twilight injecting a chill into the air as Sam swung his head around and glared at John, tightening his jaw rebelliously. Fixing his gaze on his son, John did not waver, warning him without words what might happen should Sam stay. Eventually, anger seething just under the surface, Sam stood up and left silently, leaving the two men to look into the darkening sky. Settling down where Sam had been sitting, John presented, with a grin, a dark wooden box, engraved and smooth. "Got us some cigars. Nice ones, too," John explained, letting Bobby take the box in his hands, who looked impressed as he opened it.

Taking one out and sniffing it gently, Bobby looked at John, raising an eyebrow. "How the hell'd you afford 'em?"

John shrugged, grinning like a kid on Christmas. "I saved up for 'em a while ago and figured I'd use them for a special occasion," he elaborated. "I'd say getting my son back is a fine cause for celebration, don't you think?" Agreeing, Bobby pulled out his age-old lighter out of his pocket and lit the cigar between his fingers up, quiet and seemingly nostalgic. A few moments passed; John lit one of his own up and puffed out with a small sigh. Crickets singing and the occasional bat shooting past high overhead, there was a lull in the night, in the interaction.

Bobby eventually broke the silence, inquiring plainly and curiously, "John, why'd you give him up in the first place? Even with what Missouri said...why'd you do it?" Sam's question had been sifting its fingers through Bobby's brain ever since it'd been asked: now he needed to know, himself.

John's previously content mood fell through as his smile melted and he stared out at the junkyard stretching out beyond the house. His voice was solemn as he told his friend frankly and clearly, "He scared me. My son scared me. I was terrified...terrified of what he could become."


	8. Close Encounter

If you would have told Paul and Cindy Davenport three hundred years ago that they would be driving a BMW, going to office jobs, and raising some whiny brat in 1999, they would've laughed their asses off. They were good at recon and undercover? But that far? That deep? It was a stretch, even for them. But here they were, and it was all paying off.

Azazel was meeting them, meatsuit and all, at a local Gas 'N Sip, and there was so much promise to such an encounter. They'd expected him to bust in, murdering the pimply guy at the register in some horrendous fashion and approaching them covered in the blood of countless kills, but...well, you know what they say about meeting your heroes.

The two demons waited three hours past the appointed time, and almost left, but a portly, blonde 12 year old girl with a flower hair clip stopped them on their way out, tut—tutting about the goddamn hierarchy. They glanced at each other and back at the demon before them, and it took everything they had not to burst out laughing. Instead, the three gathered at the side of the building, outside where thin, wispy mist covered the parking lot and everything beyond it.

"So," Azazel began, rubbing his meatsuit's pudgy hands together with a wild light in his golden-yellow eyes. "Update: where's our boy?"

Paul answered first, informing Azazel, "Sam's with John and Dean at Singer's; they're on a sort of convalescence vacation or something."

"Perfect," Azazel hissed under his breath, his voice amusing, since technically he sounded like a little girl. Lilith did the creepy child stuff, Azazel usually took grizzled, rough older men who looked like serial killers.

Curiosity about another issue piqued, Cindy asked slowly and cautiously, "So are we going to let Sam stay in the hunting life until you're ready for him?"

"Good question, Cindy," Azazel remarked, though it sounded near-sarcastic. He answered, anyway. "You know...," he started out thoughtfully, "I think we will. But for now..." A wicked, disturbing smile pulled at the girl's lips and Azazel chuckled, "For now let's send him a little reminder who he really belongs to."

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

A lazy day followed, and Sam and Dean took shelter from the boredom in one of the broken-down, rusted junker cars at the edge of the Singer Salvage Yard. Sam in the passenger seat, chewing on his turkey-cheddar sandwich thoughtfully, and Dean was laying down in the backseat, fingers interlocked behind his head and his legs stretched out with his ankles crossed and feet elevated. Sam's baseball cap was resting over Dean's eyes, angled perfectly to cover his eyes and forehead, but not his tireless, gorgeous smile. AC/DC blasted on a handheld radio set precariously on the car's hood, and the smell of grilled meat had drifted lazily over from Bobby's house. The top of the car was gone, pried off an indeterminate amount of years previously, so the sun glowed over the two generously and caused Sam to squint adorably as he ate.

"Sammy," Dean proposed, unmoving but still grinning like an idiot. "This is the life, man."

"Yeah?" Sam inquired, humoring his brother.

"Yeah," Dean replied contentedly. Tone grand and sure, he described, "I can't wait 'till it's just the two of us, out on the road together, facing the next big bad. You know?"

"Bad like your foot odor?" Sam complained without missing a beat, making a face of disgust that barely masked his amusement.

Slipping his shoes off effortlessly, Dean grinned and stuck his socked feet in Sam's face, saying playfully, "Aw, come on. My feet smell beautiful." Sam snorted with laughter as he shoved them away, protesting with a giggled, 'Ew!'. A quiet clang nearby broke Dean's concentration and he sprang into a sitting position, the hat over his eyes dropping to his lap and his green eyes sharp and decisive as they scanned the area. "Did you hear that?"

Vigilant and steadfast, Dean kept his eyes on their surroundings as he told Sam solemnly to turn off the radio. Swallowing the last of his sandwich, Sam realized the possible urgency of the situation and reached forward, flipping the handheld radio's off switch hastily and sitting back on the edge of the passenger seat. Beginning to stand up on the back seat, Dean pulled a pistol from the waist of his jeans at the small of his back. Within an instant, though, the gun was flying out of his grasp telekinetically and landing beyond sight. The two didn't have much time to react before Dean was suddenly lying down in the backseat, groaning and trying to push back against the invisible force pinning and keeping him down.

Sam's heart thundered in his chest as he heard footsteps approaching in the rough gravel, and he wished to god he knew what the hell was going on. It all made sense, however, the moment the source of the footsteps came into view. "Mom? Dad?"

Sam blinked, incredulous and his eyes frozen on his adoptive parents. Cindy and Paul Davenport walked closer, their eyes (normal, for the moment) on Sam and smirks on their faces. A part of Sam ached for this to all be a dream, for him to wake up and have his parents get him off to school, for Michelle to kiss him goodbye for the day, for the world to make sense finally. But Sam's senses reminded him of reality, and as the Davenports stood in front of the junker, Dean yelled that Sam run, his voice desperate and commanding. Sam, however, was just as incapable of moving as Dean was, even without Paul and Cindy's telekinesis.

As the two drew closer to him, he took a timid, shaky step back, finally choking out, "Are you really—"

"Demons?" Cindy interrupted, stopping her approach and leaning against the rusty car casually. "Well, we certainly aren't angels, sweetheart," she said in a babying, humorous tone.

"You stop this," Sam demanded, voice low and borderline emotional. "Let Dean go."

Paul, resting his hand on his 'wife's' shoulder, shook his head with a pitying but satisfied smile. "No can do, buddy. Why do we need him, anyway? _We_ are your family, Sam. We're here now, the three of us...together again." Cindy nodded in agreement, enthused.

Lip quivering, Sam blinked and stuttered, "B—but you're not—you're not human. I saw you when that water splashed you. Have you...have you been like this my whole life?"

"Sam!" Dean called, still struggling in the backseat of the car. "Sam, don't—!" But he was effectively gagged in that moment, since Cindy looked annoyed and waved her hand purposefully. Sam wanted to do something, save Dean, force this odd dynamic out, but he needed answers. He repeated his question, glancing assuredly at Dean briefly.

"Well...," Paul answered, trailing off for a moment before replying, "Okay, yes we have, but what does that matter? You didn't stop following us like a pathetic puppy dog. You honestly thought that we were your parents. You still—can't believe I'm saying this—you still loved us. And _that_ —that is your problem, Sam. Blind faith. You trusted us."

Cindy broke in, adding, "But we can still be together. We can leave this place, just the three of us—we can be a family again."

Turning his head to look at Dean, who was invisibly gagged, eyes pleading, something inside Sam hardened. His desperation became decisiveness and he narrowed his eyes, tightening his fists before speaking clearly. "No. I won't go with you, and I won't let you hurt Dean like this. I need you to leave." He held their gaze, firm in his stance until a voice sounded from beyond the Davenports, coming closer.

"Leave?" The man's voice laughed. "Not just yet, Sammy boy." Whoever it was came into view then, his easy gait and casually disturbing smile taking Sam aback. The man was about John's height, dark blonde buzzcutt mostly covered by a trucker baseball cap, and a strange, manic light in his...no. It couldn't be. His eyes were a golden yellow, an impossible, sickly color that made Sam's stomach plunge and his fingers shake.

"Who—what—are you?" Sam stuttered out eventually.

Taking leisurely, pacing steps, the man with the yellow eyes answered with a dark amusement, "Oh, I'm just a guy who'll be seeing you again in a few short years." His unearthly yellow eyes looked closely at Sam then, taking in every piece of his appearance, almost scanning or sizing him up. Sam took a step back, uncomfortable. A smile, frighteningly vicious and predatory in nature, pulled at the man's lips and he continued, "You know, don't tell anyone else this, but you were always my favorite, Sam. Always been fond of you. Mm. Anyways..." He trailed off, glancing over at an immobilized Dean and smiling cruelly before motioning to the Davenports. "Let's head out."

"Wait!" Sam cried as they turned away, receiving a wild, wordless look from his brother. "Don't go," he pled, desperation in his voice that made the yellow-eyed man grin sadistically. "I need more answers. You show up with the demons I thought were my parents and you—you say that you're going to see me again and you act like you know me but—who the hell are you?"

Cindy looked ready to say something, but the yellow-eyed man cut her off with a glare before replying, "Sorry, Sammy, we'll just have to say goodbye the hard way." And before he could say a word, Sam watched on as the thick, black smoke of a demon plumed out of each of their mouths, three bodies dropping to the ground the second the smoke had disappeared through the earth. The 'meatsuits' could have just been unconscious, but hunting had taught Sam to know a corpse when he saw one.

Breathless, Sam stared at the bodies, hardly noticing Dean getting out of the junker shakily. "What the hell just happened?" Dean asked, sounding weak yet irritated, brushing off his jacket and looking to his little brother.

Sam noticed Dean's eyes on him and shook his head, saying with a small shrug, "Don't ask me."

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

By the time the burgers Bobby was grilling were ready, Dean and Sam entered at a stumbling run into the clear area in front of the house. John had been sitting leisurely on the front steps, talking to Bobby, but he stood up now, recognizing the urgency in his sons' expressions.

"What's wrong?" John asked the panting teenage boys, and Bobby shut the grill off with a worried look he shot at John. With a wild, remembering light in their eyes, the two explained what had happened and who had approached them as best as they could. "What did he look like?" John inquired then, face pale and drawn.

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, confused. "What?"

"What. Did. The man. Look like," his father repeated, voice firm and solemn.

Bobby and Dean glanced at each other before Sam, still puzzled, answered, "He was about your height, had a baseball cap like Bobby's on, um...I think he was maybe blond, but his hat—"

"What about his eyes?"

Sam stopped. Blinked. "They...they were yellow. I don't know how—maybe a demon thing...?"

John nodded, eyes wandering absentmindedly. He was lost, deep in thought as he turned towards the door and went inside the house wordlessly. The hot afternoon sun was pulling downward to the horizon now, casting shadows over Sam, Dean, and Bobby's faces from the junker cars across the clearing. Sam chewed his lip hesitantly as he glanced at Bobby, who was closing his eyes regretful. A world of knowledge and pain and loneliness played on the man's face, and Sam wished for all he was that he could fix everything.


	9. Undone

For his seventeenth birthday, Sam Winchester had his first drink. He complained of its bitterness, and, ironically, John had ordered him to never do it again under his roof, at least until he could legally drink. Sam wanted so badly to disobey his father, to rebel just for the sake of rebelling. But he'd adapted well to the hunting life, and with practice, Sam pushed his anger and disdain down, where it would burn in the pit of his stomach 24/7. Occasionally he would release some of it in biting comments, harsh words, or simple acts of defiance—but it never escaped. It only grew.

Dean had a similar tactic, only not against their father, but more of a general anger. Only _he_...he let it out dangerously, through violence and vengeance shown in his hunting. Honestly, it scared Sam, but who the hell was he going to tell that to? They saw Bobby only once or twice a year, if that. And they moved around so often that every time Sam began to connect with someone, he had to say goodbye. He tried not to think of how often he had to do that. Near Christmas, 2000, Sam took down his first vampire nest single-handedly. And standing there, panting, covered in bright red arterial spray, he dropped the cold machete made warm with blood and sank to his knees as his father and brother drove up to the abandoned warehouse. Their proud expressions upon scanning the area fell into concern once they noticed Sam kneeling on the ground, shell-shocked. Drawing nearer to him with frantic, hollow footsteps, John and Dean asked him what was wrong. What a stupid thing to say, Sam thought in hindsight. Breath clouding up before him and his chest heaving, Sam looked his father in the eye and said in a raspy, broken voice, "What the fuck do you think."

Disagreements between John and Sam were common, unavoidable messes that Dean claimed were a major contributing factor to his headaches, and were the only source of drama for the Winchesters. Fights could be about anything from whose turn it was to take a shower to why they were hunting in the first place.

They couldn't deny how handy Sam was, though, with his laptop he'd gotten from John for Christmas. He may not have had the same zeal Dean did while hunting, but damn, could he think his way out of shit. John mainly valued his intelligence on cases, but when his son came home with science awards and college recommendations, his tolerance began to wane. Things were always slightly strained throughout the four years Sam spent with them, but when he was nineteen (due to a mix-up because of the multiple schools), it all broke apart.

It had all started with Sam's mentions of life after high school, small hints of his aspirations for a higher education—the splinters that slipped under their skin ever so quietly. He talked about it more and more the closer to graduation he got, and as the three were packing up to leave Arkansas one steamy July afternoon, Sam proudly announced that he'd been accepted into Stanford University, scholarship and all.

Dean had laughed, thinking it was a joke.

John stood, frozen with his dark brown eyes fixed on his younger son. "You're leaving us?" John's voice was cold, too calmly executed for the untrained ear to detect his anger. Dean's face fell, realizing that his brother's announcement was not, in fact, a joke.

Sam frowned, setting the folded-up flannel shirt in his hands down on the bed in front of him, a mostly packed bag near his hand. "Well, Stanford's in California, so—"

"What, so you're abandoning us, abandoning the mission?"

Sam's eyes took on an instant fire as he looked at his father sharply and snapped, "That was your mission, never mine. I've accepted Mom's death."

John's nostrils flared and he stood up straighter.

"You know," Sam scoffed, shoving more clothes into his bag roughly, "most parents would be thrilled to be able to send their kid off to any college, let alone a school like—"

"So are you going?" Dean interrupted quietly, jaw stiff and arms crossed unyieldingly. The buzz of Sam's anger left the foreground and—as he looked at his brother, the one who protected and cared for him, the one who he'd only met four years ago but felt like he'd known his whole life—Sam felt his heart break.

"Yes." The word left his mouth almost unintentionally, but he knew this was what he needed to do. He had to get out now, or he'd never be free. Dean's gaze hardened then, rigid and unpredictable. A moment before Sam turned away to grab his laptop, a roar sounded throughout the motel room and Dean leapt forward, rage and betrayal and red-hot fury twisting his face as he grabbed his brother.

Sam felt the fingers dig into his arms and his eyes widened in the second Dean cried, "Don't you dare! Don't you dare leave us, Sam! Don't you leave me!"

John, hollering and prying his older son off his younger, yelled sharply, "Stop it, boys, stop! Settle down, for Chris'sakes."

Dean, panting and eyes wild, broke away from John and glared at Sam, who grabbed his bag and laptop hastily. The youngest's eyebrows were upturned, looking downcast and distressed as he affirmed in a quiet, choked out voice, "I'm catching a bus to California. I—I need out of this painful cycle we've always been stuck in. Maybe...maybe you can—"

"Sam," John broke in, expression harsh and angry. "If you walk out that door, don't you come back."

Sam felt the ground cave out from under him, swallowing him whole as he blinked at his father. A deep-seated rage fueled Sam's broken-voiced, "What?"

John looked solid in his decision, fixing his gaze on Sam and his grip still on Dean's arms. Was Sam doing the right thing? But recalling those lonely nights and broken promises and the constantly reoccurring threat of death...Sam had to do this. It was the only way to escape while he could.

Clenching his fists and setting his jaw, Sam declared, "If that's what you really want, then fine. Don't call me, don't write me, and stay the hell away from me. I mean it." The words felt like poison in his mouth, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt affirmed. If John and Dean tried to visit or talk to him, they would just drag him back. He couldn't afford that.

Dean continued to struggle against his father, lunging toward Sam to no avail and demanding, "Don't you leave me! Don't you leave me, Sam!" He kept repeating it like a mantra, and Sam learned to tune it out as he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the door, laptop in hand.

Shooting a glare back at his father, Sam said in a low, quiet voice, "Don't follow me."

Dean growled then, breaking away from John to snarl, "Yeah, who the hell needs you, anyway?"

And as his son walked out the door heatedly, John Winchester thought on something he hadn't for years now. All those times, those hints and inklings of trouble—there were odd things about Sam. Things John had tried to forget but were flooding back now. Things he knew could grow out of proportion if left unchecked. In a moment, John is taken back to his nightmares all those year ago—the blood, the carnage...and Sam. His Sam, in the midst of all that chaos and pain and terror; and it was all Sam's doing. Realization dawned as John watched his son walk away from his family with full intention of abandonment.

He didn't want to, but in that motel room, with every trace of Sam Winchester gone and flashes of blood-soaked nightmares running through his head, John considered the possibility that Sam was dangerous. That he needed to be stopped. Maybe...maybe even killed. But that would never need to happen...would it?

FIN


End file.
